The Big Nowhere (42 page)

Sleepy Lagoon killing time; Dudley Smith asking to join the grand jury team; Dudley’s off-the-track hard-on for the José Diaz murder and the SLDC. “Ma’am, are you talkin’ about an Irish brogue? A big man, late thirties then, red-faced, brown hair and eyes?”

Delores made signs, hands to her chest and up to her face, like she was warding off vampires in an old horror movie. “Get behind me, Satan! Feel the power of Foursquare Church, Angelus Temple and Sister Aimee Semple McPherson, and I will not answer another single question until you provide adequate cash tribute. Get behind me or risk hell!”

Buzz turned out his pockets for bubkis; he knew a brick wall when he saw one. “Ma’am, you tell Sister Aimee to hold her horses—I’ll be back.”

Buzz drove home, ripped a photo of then-Patrolman Dudley Smith out of his LAPD Academy yearbook and rolled to the Chateau Marmont. Dusk and light rain were falling as he parked on Sunset by the front entrance; he was settling into a fret on the lioness when Mal tapped the windshield and got in the car.

Buzz said, “Gravy. You?”

“Double gravy.”

“Boss, it plays like a ricochet, and it contradicts ‘middle-aged’ again.”

Mal stretched his legs. “So does my stuff. Nort Layman called Jack Shortell, he called me. Doc’s been grid-searching the LA River near where Augie Duarte’s body was found—he wants a complete forensic for some book he’s writing. Get this: he found silver-gray wig strands with O+ blood—obviously from a head scratch—at the exact spot where the killer would have had to scale a fence to get away. That’s why your ricochet plays.”

Buzz said, “And why Loftis doesn’t. Boss, you think somebody’s tryin’ to frame that old pansy?”

“It occurred to me, yes.”

“What’d you get off Juan Duarte?”

“Scary stuff, worse than goddamn wolverine teeth. Danny talked to Duarte, did you know that?”

“No.”

“It was right before LAPD grabbed him. Duarte told Danny that around the SLDC time Reynolds Loftis had a much younger kid brother hanging around—who looked just like him. At first, the kid had his face bandaged, because he’d been burned in a fire. Nobody knew how much he resembled Loftis until the bandages came off. The kid blabbed at the SLDC rallies—about how a big white man killed José Diaz—but nobody believed him. He was supposed to be running from the killer, but when Duarte said, ‘How come you’re showing up here where the killer might see you,’ the brother said, ‘I’ve got special protection.’ Buzz, there are no notations on a Loftis kid brother in any of the grand jury files. And it gets better.”

Buzz thought: I know it does; he wondered who’d say “Dudley Smith” first. “Keep going. My stuff fits right in.”

Mal said, “Duarte went to see Charles Hartshorn right before his alleged suicide, to see if he could get the cops to put some juice into investigating Augie’s murder. Hartshorn said he’d been ditzed on Duane Lindenaur’s killing—you, partner—and he read about the zoot stick mutilations on the other victims in a scandal sheet and thought the snuffs might be SLDC connected. Hartshorn called the LAPD then, and talked to a Sergeant Breuning, who said he’d be right over. Duarte left, and the next morning Hartshorn’s body was found. Bingo.”

Buzz said it first. “Dudley Smith. He was the big white man and he joined the team so he could keep the SLDC testimony watchdogged. That’s why he was interested in Upshaw. Danny was hipped on the zoot stick mutilations, and Augie Duarte—Juan’s cousin—was on his surveillance list. That’s why Dudley blew off the tails. He went with Breuning to see Hartshorn, and somebody said the wrong thing. Necktie party, bye-bye, Charlie.”

Mal hit the dashboard. “I can’t fucking believe it.”

“I can. Now here’s a good question. You been around Dudley lots more than I have lately. Is he tied to the queer snuffs?”

Mal shook his head. “No. I’ve been racking my brain on it, and I can’t put the two together. Dudley wanted Upshaw to join the team, and he couldn’t have cared less about dead homos. It was when Danny pushed on ‘zoot stick’ and ‘Augie Duarte’ that Dudley got scared. Wasn’t José Diaz a zooter?”

Buzz said, “His threads were slashed with a zoot stick, I think I remember that. You got a motive for Dudley killin’ Diaz?”

“Maybe. I went with Dudley to visit his niece. Apparently she’s got a bent for Mexes and Dudley can’t stand it.”

“Pretty slim, boss.”

“Dudley’s insane! What the fuck more do you want!”

Buzz squeezed his partner’s arm. “Whoa, boy, and just listen to my stuff. Coleman Masskie’s crazy mama and I had a little chat. She had lots of different kids by different daddies, she don’t know who’s whose. Coleman left home in the late fall of ’42. He was a burglar, he loved jazz, he worked at that dental lab. All that fits Upshaw’s scenario. Now, dig this: fall of ’42, a big man with a brogue comes around askin’ for Coleman. I describe Dudley, the ginch gets terrified and clams. I say Coleman’s the one runnin’ from the big white man, who’s Dudley, who bumped José Diaz—and Coleman saw it. I say we stretch Gordean now—then go back and ply that old girl and try to tie her to Reynolds Loftis.”

Mal said, “I’m taking Dudley down.”

Buzz shook his head. “You take another think on that. No proof, no evidence on Hartshorn, an eight-year-old spic homicide. A cop with Dudley’s juice. You’re as nuts as he is if you think that plays.”

Mal put on a lilting tenor brogue. “Then I’ll kill him,
lad
.”

“The fuck you will.”

“I’ve killed a man before, Meeks. I can do it again.”

Buzz saw that he was out to do it—enjoying the view off the cliff. “Partner, a Nazi in the war ain’t the same thing.”

“You knew about that?”

“Why’d you think I was always afraid it was you ’stead of Dragna set me up? A mild-mannered guy like you kills once, he
can
do it again.”

Mal laughed. “You ever kill anyone?”

“I stand on the Fifth Amendment, boss. Now you wanta go roust that queer pimp?”

Mal nodded. “7941’s the address—I think it’s back in the bungalow part.”

“You be the bad guy tonight. You’re good at it.”

“After you, lad.”

Buzz took the lead. They walked through the lobby and out a side door to the courtyard; it was dark, and high hedges hid the individual bungalows. Buzz tracked the numbers marked on wrought-iron poles, saw 7939 and said, “It’s gotta be the next one.”

Gunshots.

One, two, three, four—close, the odd-numbered side of the walkway. Buzz pulled his .38; Mal pulled and cocked his. They ran to 7941, pinned themselves to the wall on opposite sides of the door and listened. Buzz heard footsteps inside, moving away from them; he looked at Mal, counted one, two, three on his fingers, wheeled and kicked the door in.

Two shots splintered the wood above his head; a muzzle flickered from a dark back room. Buzz hit the floor; Mal piled on top of him and fired twice blindly; Buzz saw a man spread-eagled on the carpet, his yellow silk robe soaked red from sash to collar. Cash wrapped in bank tabs surrounded the body.

Mal stumbled and charged. Buzz let him go, heard thumping, crashing, glass breaking and no more shots. He got up and checked the stiff—a fancy man with a neat beard, a neat manicure and not much of a torso left. The bank tabs were marked Beverly Hills Federal, and there was at least three thousand in half-grand packets within grabbing distance. Buzz resisted; Mal came back, panting. He wheezed, “Car waiting. Late model white sedan.”

Buzz kicked a pack of greenbacks; they hit an embroidered “F.G.” on the dead man’s sleeve. “Beverly Hills Fed. That where Loftis withdrew his money?”

“That’s the place.”

Sirens in the distance.

Buzz waved goodbye to the cash. “Loftis, Claire, the killer, what do you think?”

“Let’s hit their place now. Before the Sheriffs ask us what we’re—”

Buzz said, “Separate cars,” and took off running as fast as he could.

Mal got there first.

Buzz saw him standing across the street from the De Haven house, U-turned and killed his engine. Mal leaned in the window. “What took you?”

“I run slow.”

“Anybody see you?”

“No. You?”

“I don’t think so. Buzz, we weren’t there.”

“You’re learnin’ this game better every day, boss. What’d you get here?”

“Two cold cars. I looked in a window and saw De Haven and Loftis playing cards. They’re clean. You make the killer for it?”

Buzz said, “Nix. It’s wrong. He’s a psycho fuckin’ rat worshiper, and it’s my considered opinion that psycho rat worshipers don’t carry guns. I’m thinkin’ Minear. He fits with Loftis, and there was a line on him from the files, said he liked to buy boys.”

“You could be right. The Masskie woman next?”

“236 South Beaudry, boss.”

“Let’s do it.”

Buzz got there first; he rang the bell and went eyeball to eyeball with Delores in a long white robe. She said, “Did you bring monetary tribute for Sister?”

Buzz said, “My bagman’s comin’ in a minute.” He took out the picture of Dudley Smith. “Ma’am, is this the fella who was inquirin’ after Coleman?”

Delores blinked at the photograph and crossed herself. “Get behind me, Satan. Yes, that’s him.”

Seven come eleven, one more for Danny Upshaw. “Ma’am, do you know the name Reynolds Loftis?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Anybody named Loftis?”

“No.”

“Any chance you messed with a man named Loftis around the time Coleman was born?”

The old girl harumphed. “If by ‘messed’ you mean engaged in breeding activities for Sister Aimee, the answer is no.”

Buzz said, “Ma’am, you told me Coleman went lookin’ for his daddy when he took off in ’42. If you didn’t know who his daddy was, how’d the boy know where to look?”

Delores said, “Twenty dollars for Sister Aimee and I’ll show you.”

Buzz slid off his high school ring. “Yours to keep, sweetie. Just show me.”

Delores examined the ring, pocketed it and walked away; Buzz stood on the porch wondering where Mal was. Minutes dragged; the woman returned with an old leather scrapbook. She said, “The genealogy of my slave breeding. I took pictures of all the men who gave me their seed, with appropriate comments on the back. When Coleman decided he had to find his father, he looked at this book for pictures of the men he most resembled. I hid the book when the brogue man came by, and I still want twenty dollars for this information.”

Buzz opened the scrapbook, saw that the pages contained stapled-on photographs of dozens of men, held it up to the porch light and started looking. Four pages down, a picture caught his eye: a spellbinder youthful, spellbinder handsome Reynolds Loftis in a tweed knicker suit. He pulled the photo out and read the writing on the back.

“Randolph Lawrence (a nom de guerre?), summer stock actor, the Ramona Pageant, August 30, 1922. A real Southern gentleman. Good white stock. I hope his seed springs fertile.”

1942: burglar, tooth technician, rat lover Coleman witnesses Dudley Smith killing José Diaz, sees this picture or others and locates Daddy Reynolds Loftis. 1943: Coleman, his face burned in a fire???, hangs out at SLDC rallies with his father/phony brother, talks up the big white man, nobody believes him. 1942 to 1944: Loftis’ psych file missing. 1950: killer Coleman. Was the psycho trying to frame Daddy/Reynolds for the queer murders, dressed up like Loftis himself—Doc Layman’s wig fragments the final kicker?

Buzz held out the picture. “That Coleman, ma’am?”

Delores smiled. “Rather close. What a nice-looking man. A shame I can’t remember spawning with him.”

A car door slammed; Mal got out and trotted up the steps. Buzz took him aside and showed him the photo. “Loftis, 1922. AKA Randolph Lawrence, summer stock actor. He’s Coleman’s father, not his brother.”

Mal tapped the picture. “Now I’m wondering how the boy got burned and why the brother charade. And you were right on Minear.”

“What do you mean?”

“I called the DMV. Minear owns a white ’49 Chrysler New Yorker sedan. I went by his place in Chapman Park on my way here. It was in his building’s garage, warm, and it looked just like the car at the Marmont.”

Buzz put an arm around Mal’s shoulders. “Gifts in a manger, and here’s another one. That crazy woman in the doorway ID’d Dudley from a picture I got. He’s the brogue man.”

Mal looked over at Delores. “Do you think Dudley copped Danny’s files?”

“No, I think he’d have faked a burglary. Coleman’s our killer, boss. All we gotta do now is find him.”

“Shit. Loftis and Claire won’t talk. I know it.”

Buzz took his arm away. “No, but I bet we could squeeze Chaz beauty. He was tight with Loftis back in ’43, ’44, and I know a good squeeze artist to help us. You give that lady a double-saw and I’ll go give him a call.”

Mal went for his billfold; Buzz walked into the house and found a phone by the kitchen door. He called Information, got the number he wanted and dialed it; Johnny Stompanato’s slick guinea baritone oiled on the line. “Talk to me.”

“It’s Meeks. You wanta make some money? Number-one muscle on a strongarm job, make sure my buddy don’t go crazy and hurt someone?”

Johnny Stomp said, “You’re a dead man. Mickey found out about you and Audrey. The neighbors saw you hustling her away, and I’m lucky he didn’t figure out I tipped you. Nice to know you, Meeks. I always thought you had style.”

Move over Danny Upshaw, fat man coming through. Buzz looked at Mal paying off the rat killer’s mother; he got an idea—or the idea got him. “Contract out?”

“Ten grand. Fifteen if they get you alive so Mickey can get his jollies.”

“Chump change. Johnny, you wanna make twenty grand for two hours’ work?”

“You slay me. Next you’ll be offering me a date with Lana Turner.”

“I mean it.”

“Where you gonna get that dough?”

“I’ll have it inside two weeks. Deal?”

“What makes you think you’ll live that long?”

“Ain’t you a gambler?”

“Oh shit. Deal.”

Buzz said, “I’ll call you back,” and hung up. Mal was standing beside him, shaking his head. “Mickey knows?”

“Yeah, Mickey knows. You got a couch?”